Letters to John
by haruchan7139
Summary: After months fading from existence thinking he was completely alone, someone - the most important someone - tells him otherwise. No idea where this is going. Rating subject to change. Also, I am incapable of writing summaries.


**A/N: Hello! So, for reasons unbeknownst to man, I have recently been feeling somewhat creative around the Witching Hour due to high caffeine consumption across the day; therefore, I have been channelling this creativity in to writing things! This was last night's escapades, and basically, I have absolutely no idea where this is going. Hopefully, you know, if I can be bothered, I shall make this a multi-chapter thang, but don't expect an update too soon. I hope sincerely that anyone who should chance upon this will enjoy it and maybe even review it for cookies? Maybe? Anyway - enjoy! :)**

Letters to John

John lightly drums the keys of his laptop as he struggles for something to type; something to say for himself. But he knows any attempts are futile, and after ten minutes of staring at the screen with his hands poised hesitantly over the keys, he gives up. His psychiatrist had told him that keeping a blog would help – yet once again, John had found himself searching for words he couldn't find. It was like the last 2 years had never happened, and John was back to square one; feeling as empty and helpless as he had when he returned from Afghanistan. It was as if every night he'd spent chasing criminals across London doused the pale glow of the city, every time he'd sat and listened in awe as... as Sherlock rattled off a bunch of ludicrous deductions that had him muttering all kinds of superlatives had never even happened, and all he was left with were a series of memories that ought to be remembered in a glowing sepia that stung instead.

He steeples his fingers and rests his indexes just above the bridge of his nose and with a deep breath, squeezes his eyes shut; listening to the silence. It just epitomised what it was like to be without him: absolute emptiness. John had left the flat exactly as it was when Sherlock had left, bar from a few festering experiments, but it just wasn't enough. It was like having a ghost – a mere shadow – of Sherlock drifting around the flat, taunting John. But it wasn't _him_. The test tubes, the chemistry journals – none of it was actually him crouching on the sofa as if about to pounce or curled up on the sofa beneath his silk dressing gown sulking. Nor was it the shirts that strained across his torso with the top button undone, revealing the expanse of his pale neck and shadows of his prominent clavicles-

DING

The sound snapped John out of his reverie and he opened his eyes to the laptop he'd forgotten about. A dialogue box appeared at the bottom of the screen:

_You have 1 New Message_

_From: Unknown_

_No Subject_

John frowned. No one emailed him anymore. He'd stopped updating the blog months ago, and people were only interested in John if he was regaling tales of him playing the part of faithful blogger and general tagalong to the slightly arrogant and eccentric, yet oddly charming detective, and if John were to be entirely honest, he'd feel exactly the same. John was just another lump of rock that had been lucky enough to get pulled inexorably in to Sherlock's orbit. And John felt privileged: to constantly be in the company of such an extraordinarily intelligent and unique being in the knowledge that they – someone quite so _brilliant _– could want to spend the majority of his waking hours was something he nor many others could or ever will understand. Except perhaps Sherlock, who liked to keep such things to himself. John allowed himself a small smile before clicking on the fading box on the screen and his inbox appeared. Intrigued, he clicked on the new email.

_Dear John,_

_All that needed to be done has been done – I'll be coming home soon._

_- SH_

John's eyes widened and felt his eyes brim over with tears. It... it couldn't be... surely? After all the time he'd been hoping and praying for Sherlock to come back or at least contact him, all this time wanting to sell his soul just to fill some of the void he'd left behind. He remembered with startling clarity the time he'd sat silently in a freezing cold bathtub with a disturbingly steady grip on the handle of a kitchen knife; the serrated edge inches away from his forearm. John didn't know whether to be angry with Sherlock for seemingly dragging him to hell and back for no apparent reason or to be overjoyed that the best thing to have ever happened to him hadn't bled out on the pavement next to St. Bath's. Instead he just sat staring at the screen until it fell out of focus and he felt the tears he'd spent months waiting to fall dribble down his cheeks.


End file.
